Like Heroin
by rettevronnoc
Summary: If he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, will it all be the same when he wakes up? [[Hint of MarkRoger]]


A/N: Renting.

* * *

The loft was freezing. The sun was dim. Mark was wondering.

How can such small words describe such big things so perfectly?

He looks at the near-bare loft, blowing puffs of white breath every few seconds. It seems so big without another person there; the shadows lingering in corners, the small rays of sunlight washing over nothing but wood and metal, and maybe the occasional poster. The duct-tape couch and coffee table made of cardboard boxes still sit in the middle of the room, and the long metal table still stands in the kitchen, but somehow it all feels completely different. Wind rustles throughout the room, bringing in smells of dirt and grime from the window that overlooks Alphabet City. Mark wonders—if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, when he wakes up, will everything still be the same way?

The Well Hungarians started out as a garage band; a way to get Roger's mind off of the daily stress of being a bohemian. Mark insisted he practiced on his Fender everyday, and that he warmed up his vocals and tuned the instrument so that it would sound perfect when it came time to perform. Because of this, Roger always deemed himself the Garage Band King, and Mark his Punk Rock Prince. It was a cute nick-name a first, and whenever the filmmaker got footage of the two, he always added the film to the box labeled, "The Castle."

For all of the good names, all of the good footage in the world, Mark would have never opened his mouth if he knew about April.

"Mark! Ma—arky!" Roger stumbles through the metal door, flinging it back as he laughs and drops two bottles. The metal shudders and bangs loudly as it almost breaks and falls down, but Roger doesn't care. One of the bottles rolls to Mark's feet, and he realizes that this isn't going to be an easy night at home.

"Hi, Rog," He acts like nothing's wrong for his own sanity, "How was the gig?"

"Who gives a fuck?" Roger hiccups between nearly every word, and a few more bottles drop from his jacket. Mark counts seven, but it's dark, and he could swear he heard nine thumps.

"Why did you bring home bottles?" The image of a drunken Roger trying to stealthily sneak empty beer bottles into his jacket is enough to make Mark laugh, but he doesn't. He _can't_. He hasn't laughed in over two months.

"Because we're going on an eszapade."

"You mean _escapade_?"

"Da, dorten." The rock star shrugs and it takes Mark a minute to remember Roger has a half German drummer. "Come on! It's been like…twenty minutes since I gots home. We…we are WASTINGtime, Marky!"

The filmmaker sighs and rubs his eyes, curling deeper into the chair he's in. It's hell trying to stay up for Roger every night. _So why do you do it?_ "It's been five minutes at the most, Roger. And don't call me Marky."

Before he knows it, Roger's picked him up, dropped him on the floor, and is pulling him by his ankle out of the loft. "Stop thinking and just _come on_!"

* * *

"Woo-hoo!" Roger whops and hollers as he throws the bottle at the top of the bridge, smiling as it smashes into a thousand pieces. The moon-light reflects off of the brown locks Roger forgot to bleach this month, and Mark almost likes it better that way. It makes Roger's eyes wider. "You know, Marky, I don't like the band all that much."

Mark's eyes flicker open, and he sits up from the box he had previously been resting on. "Why?"

Roger shrugs, "I don't fit in with them. They don't want to make music like I do—they don't want to make _good _music. I'm leaving them. I'm gonna…I'm gonna be the _shit _when I'm a solo artist."

The filmmaker cracks a smile, "Cool."

"I know what you're thinking, Mark. You're thinking I'm not going to make it. Well, I am."

He shivers as Roger reads his mind, and before he knows it, he's blurted out, "What about the drugs, Rog?"

Roger stops throwing the bottles and turns to look at him, "That's something different, Mark. You…you just don't know."

"Then make me know."

Excitement flickers in Roger's eyes, and Mark knows he's made a mistake, "You—you want to try it? It's the greatest feeling in the world, Mark. Better than drinking and sex and everything. It's irreplaceable."

"No," Mark bites quickly, "I don't want to try it. Drugs can't replace life, Roger."

"They've replaced my life." The rock star looks at him earnestly and shrugs, turning to throw another bottle against the cement of the bridge.

Seconds pass, and then minutes, and Mark doesn't want it to get to an hour. The only sound that fills the void of time is the smashing of beer bottles, and it almost makes Mark sick. Roger smirks every time one breaks, though, so Mark lets him keep going. But then they stop.

"I miss her, Mark. I miss her a lot."

_And now you're going to let your life pass just like she did,_ "I know you do, Roger. I know you do. Come on, let's go home."

Roger grabs Mark's shoulders, looking him hard in the eye, "I missed you more."

For the first time in his life, Mark has no clue how to respond. Instead, he just nods, and Roger tosses his cigarette on the ground before they go.

As they round the corner to go home, Mark swears he sees Roger's cigarette spark and light some hay at the bottom of the bridge.

* * *

"Do you want me to stop using?"

"Yes." He walks Roger back to his bed, tucking him in.

"Why? I thought you want the best for me."

"I do, Roger." He's too tired to explain in full detail, so he just pulls out the best excuse he can. Sometimes, on nights like these when Mark's been awake for 52 hours, he wonders how Roger does it. The all night partying, the drug use—no wonder Roger chose April's partying over Mark's quiet nights at home.

"Will you help me?" Roger's whisper is so light that Mark barely hears it. At first he thinks he doesn't, but when Roger nuzzles his neck, he knows he has to answer.

At first, the filmmaker is taken aback. Collins asked him to stop, Benny asked him to stop, even _Maureen _asked him to stop, and he always said no. For a moment, Mark wonders if there's anything besides alcohol behind Roger's words, "Of course, Rog."

"…Okay."

Mark finally closes his eyes, the last image he sees being Roger's chest rising and falling next to his own. The sheets are stark white against the rock star's dirty skin, and Mark can't help but like it that way. As sleep starts to settle, he hears Roger mumble one more thing,

"You're like heroin, Mark. Just like it."

And Mark wonders—if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, when he wakes up, will everything still be the same way?


End file.
